The Sleeper
by Hand of Zarquon
Summary: Are they dreams? Visions? Or a summons from the heavens?


THE SLEEPER  
  
The dreams came often now, the question not being if they would come but when. Or were they more than just dreams? He did not fear them, but at the same time did not welcome them – he merely accepted them as fact and could only let them burn into his mind through sheer force of repetition. Tonight, though, they were exceptionally clear. Gone was the cloudiness that always seemed to permeate them; gone were the mists of time and memory that frustrated his vision. He allowed himself to be carried away by them, and watched, and learned, as they played themselves out in front of his eyes…  
  
A pulsing redness filled his mind – burning, twisting inside its prison. But was that prison the shard of crimson, or the man it was lodged inside? And was it a man, or merely a skeleton, driven to move and survive only through sheer willpower? Either way, he could not tell.  
  
The man's cowl lifted for a moment, nudged by the winds that buffeted him from the rear of the carriage. His eyes, chunks of granite suspended in a sea of bloodshot white, looked up almost despairingly, his arms and bony fingers moving the hood back around his face. As the lightning illuminated his gaunt face, the gem seemed to throb and hiss, the ribbons of crimson writhing even faster against the edges of the stone. He hunkered down into his cloak, drawing it about him as if to stay inside of it, his skeletal hands gripping his sword a little tighter. Now and again his eyes flashed the same shade of red as the stone. And each time he withdrew a little further into his cloak – into himself. And the carriage drove on, deeper into the mountain pass, drifting out of sight until it was a speck on the horizon.  
  
Immediately the dreams shifted, taking him to the front of a great building nestled up against some foothills. The sandstone wall towered up above him and extended as far as his vision could reach. In front of him, the great wooden doors opened and he was compelled to go inside, where he found a flowering garden, adorned with roses, daffodils, irises, and a host of other plants, and gracing the center was a pure white fountain. It seemed an idyllic place, sheltered from the outside world.  
  
Then the shouts began, far away, as if from deep below him. But soon they became louder and louder, and the tranquil gardens became chaotic as women from all quarters ran, some giving commands, most sporting bows of various shapes and sizes. One scrambled to the top of the fountain – the commander – screaming orders and telling her archers to ready their weapons. Soon the screams came from just the other side of the gardens.  
  
Finally, the doors burst open with a great sigh, and a massive demon charged through the open portal – as high as the walls themselves, her blood-red hair skirting the roof of the monastery, four massive talons protruding from her back, a sickly green ichor dripping from each of them, a dead woman hanging from her left hand. She roared and raised her claw- like hands to the sky and a flood of goat-men, each bearing a battle-axe or giant spiked maul rushed to the attack. The arrows buzzed through the air like angry bees, many finding their mark, but they were not enough to stem or even slow the tide. The archers slowly drew back, still releasing arrows into the charging mass, but their enemies seemed to be unstoppable, some still charging even with several arrows lodged in them. The floor became slick with blood and bodies clogged the gardens as the onrushing horde began to overwhelm the brave but outnumbered defenders. Screams and oaths rent the air as a wedge of goat men broke through the line of archers, weapons cutting through armor and flesh with little effort. Bodies were hurled through the air, crumpling into bloody piles, staining the flowers and turning the waters of the fountain a dark red. Then the massive demoness entered the fray, talons spearing helpless archers, claws removing arms, legs, and heads, covering her with the blood of her enemies. Enraged, the archers' commander charged the demoness, stabbing downward with a broken arrow in one hand, flailing with her bow in the other. The demoness merely grabbed the red-hooded woman by her chest and flung her away, poison dripping from her wounds. The battle took what seemed like both an eternity and a mere second, but soon the archers were decimated. A handful stayed behind and provided a cover as the rest gathered their wounded companions, dragging them to the outside and to safety, vowing death to the demon queen who stood there, arms akimbo, laughing and howling her victory to the sky.  
  
Then in a trice the chaos and noise of the battlefield were gone; in their place was the faint crackle of torches that lined a great, underground tomb. Yet something was amiss; for its inhabitant was not there. Instead, a great evil guarded the room within – a monster, almost insect-like in appearance. Two great scythe-like arms protruded from the chitinous thorax of the creature and an infernal grin of razor-sharp teeth was set just below two narrow red slits. The bodies of a pair of warriors bold enough to break in to the demon's lair lay shattered at his feet despite their burnished armor and thick shields, now torn to shreds as if made of paper. However, the demon would not be there if it were not for the inhabitant of the great hall that it was guarding. Past the walls covered in hieroglyphs lay a great chamber, and inside it was a beautiful, pure white light that was slowly fading, damaged and chained by some powerful magic. Sadness permeated the fetid air of the chamber as the distant light flickered and weakened.  
  
But the dream didn't linger – instead it shifted to the inside of a great stone temple. A great ceremony was taking place. All around the room rows of men and women, all wearing clean white robes, stood and waited. Suddenly the booming of drums filled the room and the great stone doors opened. Fronted and flanked by guards, six robed figures paraded into the room, each one holding a lead that attached to the collar of a young woman. She was clad in a flowing white silk robe that trailed several feet behind her, with a headdress of all sorts of colorful feathers and woven reeds. Yet she was crying and her face evidenced signs of a struggle – an ugly black circle around her jade eyes, and a red split through her lower lip. Her handlers lead her to a great bone altar that was built in the middle of the temple, and roughly forced her to kneel before it. The drums reached a crescendo and a wail from the woman split through the air. As if on cue, a stunted figure loped into the room, looking like a cross between a demon and a man. Swathed in red, the thing advanced on the kneeling woman, its claws clicking on the stone floor, a flanged mace made of pure obsidian hanging from one of its gray arms. It drew agonizingly closer to the prone girl and when it was almost on top of her it stopped and threw back its knobby, armored head. The sound that came out was of no earthly language – it was the language of the dead, a guttural hissing that reeked of evil and terror, an incantation to the darkness. The creature's hand raised and moved through the air, the shard of crystal embedded in its hand glowing a brilliant blue. Just as the last words were uttered the mace flashed down in one fluid motion and the woman exploded in a shower of blood, silk and feathers, covering her handlers and anyone close by with red. A cheer went up from the crowd and the drums began beating again as the ruined body slumped to the ground.  
  
Once again the dream shifted focus, this time to a great city – the Barbarian capital of Sescheron – his home, he knew. And this time, he was in the dream. The great walls and parapets that had held off invasion for centuries could be mistaken for no other. Now, as with the rest of his dreams, something was wrong. There were no guards at the parapets. The banners were torn and damaged. The great wall gates were blackened and charred and hanging from their hinges. Not a soul moved through the street. He walked through the gaping portal, uneasy at the complete silence in the city. A leaf rustling in the deserted street was enough to make him jump. A lump formed in his throat as he climbed the steps to the outer wall and peered over the edge. A great stain was moving on the fresh snow – from this distance, it looked like an army of ants. But he knew it was much more than any mortal army for, even at the great distance between them, he could see clearly a great, multi-legged demon at the head of the army. It could only be a Prime Evil – but which one?  
  
A shuffling alerted him and he spun around, limbs tingling in fear and anticipation, his blood pounding through his veins. Behind him was a knot of zombies. Bodies hopelessly damaged, flesh hanging off of blackened muscle, jagged fragments of bone protruding from some, they advanced on him, jaws agape in a silent plea for help. But as he looked on in horror, his stomach lurched – he knew these people! His parents, friends, brothers, sisters; all corrupted by the darkness! He threw up his arms to defend himself when suddenly the scene fell away as a great calm surrounded him. A visage loomed before him, ethereal tendrils wafting behind, clad in pure gold battle armor and wielding a great sword that burned with heavenly energy. An angel, he knew. The angel spoke in a soothing, deep voice, firm and urgent yet reassuring. He found himself speaking.  
  
"You are Tyrael, the Archangel."  
  
The golden helmet nodded once. "These visions you have seen are not mere dreams. Some have yet to happen. Some are happening as we speak. And some have yet to come to pass. Know this, mortal: you are the last hope of the Light. You have been chosen to fight against the Prime Evils that threaten the entire world. You must stop them from reuniting. Start in the west, at the Rogue Monastery. Watch for the Dark Wanderer. Watch for the great Horadrim mage. Watch for the leader of the Zakarum faith. Do not fail in this quest. And remember, you are never alone. Others will guide you in your struggle. Now go, and may the Light watch over you."  
  
He came awake with a start, sitting bolt upright next to the dying embers of his campfire. The dreams – visions, he told himself – had called him. There was no denying it, this time. No longer was he consigned to being a wanderer and outcast among his people. He gathered his axe, shield, and backpack and, casting a glance over his shoulder one last time at the grasslands of his home, set off south and west.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: Diablo and all characters and places contained within are copyright Blizzard Entertainment. I'm just taking them out for a little spin and I'll put them back in more or less one piece… 


End file.
